


mea culpa

by anna_bolinas



Category: 16th Century CE RPF, The Tudors (TV), The Tudors (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, anne is a ghost and henry is a decrepit old man, rewrite of the end of that s4 scene basically
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-20
Updated: 2017-05-20
Packaged: 2018-11-02 17:35:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10949421
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/anna_bolinas/pseuds/anna_bolinas
Summary: when she enters, it is like a shiver of cold air down his spine // rewrite of anne/henry scene from s4 of 'the tudors'





	mea culpa

**Author's Note:**

> so I wanted to write something to honor the execution of Anne Boleyn, and I've always wanted to rewrite that Anne/Henry scene from The Tudors because, as much as I do like it, I do wish Anne had been a little harsher with Henry. so here it is, written and edited all today, but I'm pretty pleased with it. please enjoy!

When she enters, it is like a shiver of cold air down his spine. He knows he is dreaming, but she looks so real. Black hair cascading from a black French hood to settle on black shoulders—not the clothes she wore to her execution, he knows. Her face, olive in life but pale in death, has not changed otherwise. The same thin mouth, the same long, slightly pinched nose, the same pointed little chin. And the swan neck; and the dark eyes. He could reach out and touch her—but what would he feel? Mist? Rotting flesh? Nothing at all?

“Henry.” Her voice still carries, with the slight French lilt staining it blue.

“Whore.” He forces it out through a tight throat. He will not call her by her name.

Her lips curl into a sardonic smile. She shakes her head. “Oh, you were always a fool, and I see the years have not made you wiser.”

“I was a fool to have trusted _you_. I was wise to have discarded you.”

“ _Discard_ me?” Her voice rises; it stings him, a little, to remember how she used to do that, how her timbre used to pitch upward when she became passionate. It stings worse to remember how he had once thought of it fondly, like a kiss; and then later found it hateful, like poison poured in his ear. “That implies you simply set me aside, like a toy or a poor hand of primeria. No, you did not _discard_ me,” she says stridently, “you _murdered_ me. You sent for a fine French swordsman to cut through my neck. Please, do not insult yourself with such a careless word choice.” She pauses, the color high in her cheeks, her jaw tense. “I should think you should take some pride in what you and yours did,” she says softly, with another sharp smile. “Such a coup, to relieve me of my position thus.”

He grinds his teeth, turns halfway from her. She was ever good at arguing. Another unbidden memory bubbles up, of them lying in bed one star dripped night, and him telling her she might’ve been a debater, had she been born in ancient Greece. _Oh yes_ , she had laughed, _the first woman rhetorician, killing men in Greek_. “I was a fool, and yet I outsmarted you, apparently,” he says finally.

“Ah, now you admit it,” she says, and smiles broadly for the first time, so he can see her teeth. “So it was not Cromwell’s fault, or my own grievous sins, but truly a coup against me. And since I did not have the power of Spain behind me, you knew you could kill me and no one would raise a sword in my defense.”

“I did not—I did _not_ —Cromwell did not—,” he pauses, searching for the words, and all the while she smiles at him with her maddeningly bright black eyes. Damn her! “You lied to me! You were not a virgin when I met you, and you did not remain loyal to me during our marriage!”

“I did not lie to you, and you know it, deep down in that black heart of yours.” With every sentence, she takes another step towards him, her hands balled up by her sides. “How could I have, surrounded by my ladies day and night, and by your side more oft than not? And pregnant, always pregnant, with your children? I had no time, nor inclination, for such dalliance. A sweet word and a smile do not constitute disloyalty.” Again, she pauses, only a few steps away from him, breathing heavily, two bright red spots burning on her cheeks. “And I did love you,” she whispers. She stares at him, that same penetrating stare that had once made him weak with desire. “More fool I,” she mutters, dropping her gaze.

Silence stretches between them. She drifts towards the wall to his right, spreads her fingers against it, marveling at her own hands that can, perhaps, finally feel again the cool touch of marble. He closes his eyes, hoping that when he opens them, she will be gone.

No such luck.

“Then we are both fools,” he says, his voice thick. She snorts at that, and opens her mouth, no doubt to make some witty remark, but he cuts her off. “But I will not forgive you. You, who lost me my boys, a fault you cannot lay on my doorstep.”

“Oh, but I can!” she insists, turning from the wall in a swirl of skirts. “It was you who acted far more disloyally to me, with that Seymour girl. Parading her about in front of me, in my own rooms, when what I needed most was tenderness and care, not rank offense. And then, despite the warnings of your closest friends, despite my own warnings, you decided to join that joust and nearly died! If I committed any fault, it was merely to buckle under the weight of the stress which you laid upon me! And I did not lose all of our children. You have a daughter, a good girl, clever and beautiful and bright, so bright. Or have you forgotten about her, in your mad dash to forget everything about me?”

Elizabeth—she seems to flash in the corners of the room, half a shade herself, her red gold hair catching the moonlight. His hair—but curling around _her_ face. “I have not forgotten about her,” he grunts. “But to look at her is to look at you, almost, and that I cannot bear for very long. I do love her, though. Do not dare say I do not love her.”

“I know how much your love is worth.” Her lips twist, as if she would spit at his feet. “You could love her more.”

“I love her enough.”

“Not enough to make up for what you stole from her—my own love.” A wetness springs to her eyes, making them shine like twin cuts of onyx. She had always had a great desire to be near Elizabeth. Once, his courtiers had raised eyebrows to see Elizabeth placed on a silk cushion beside her mother. She had smiled at them, much as she smiles at him now. _She will be a queen one day,_ she said, _and so she will be prepared now, to look down on men._ “Mayhaps I took your boys,” she whispers, “but you took my daughter.”

He feels wetness in his own eyes. Blasted old fool, she can still hurt him, though she has been dead for years. His hands curl into fists, his rings cutting into the flesh of his palm. “I am sorry,” he says, through gritted teeth.

He expects—tears, a rush of emotion, bent knees and shaking hands and dearly departed lips pressed against his. Instead, she smiles and shakes her head again, brushes a tear from her eye with a delicate flick of her wrist. “No, you are not.” She turns to go, her black dress and black hair and black, black eyes melting into the shadows.

“Anne!” he cries out hoarsely. But she is already gone.


End file.
